That afternoon, a young female nurse finished her round, checking that everything was okay, and left the room. Not without first saying goodbye with a smile and a wink, though.
Adam knew what that gesture meant; he had received it thousands of times. However, he didn’t feel like reciprocating it, so he pretended to be distracted and looked away.
If this had happened a few days ago, he would have asked her for her number or even asked her to close the door, and he would have set aside for her to lie down next to him in the bed. But not now. Only Juzo occupied his mind.
He settled himself on the bed and facing the vast city landscape that unfolded beyond the window, bathed by the sunset. He took his phone and entered a search engine and wrote News from Markabia.
Images of cities appeared, some modern like Proxima and others very old, like the one where some towers were seen sticking out from among the baroque buildings like extensive chimneys; a surely emblematic city because he’d already seen photos of it. Also, images of forests and other locations on the island continent. Pictures of the regime’s military parades where their crimson coat of arms was raised—the white horse standing on its hind legs, its wings made of laurel leaves wide open—and other formations of foot soldiers, all in the olive green uniform Juzo had worn or variations of it. Others showed the leaders of the Empire, with their long, wrinkled faces, wearing dark uniforms with flowing cloaks, receiving other world leaders; although of those, there weren’t that many, of course; what little was known of the Markabian Empire was enough for many to avoid it.
The images didn’t reveal much; they were almost postcards, and the news that mentioned the Empire were bulletins from other continents. ‘Shipwreck ends with twelve arrests and five fugitives,’ was one that dated back a couple of years. ‘Freighter delayed in the maritime periphery of Pannotia at the request of the Markabian Empire,’ was another, although it was not even the ship that was currently stranded, but the previous one, which occurred two months ago.
The regime maintained strict regulations as to what information came out of it and in what way; of course, there wasn’t going to be anything about two defecting soldiers, or about the theft of secret files or jet packs or anything like that.
He searched ‘Edda peninsula.’ The available information was also scant; nothing surprising considering it was the neighboring territory of a place with a bad reputation like the Markabian Empire, besides being located on Pannotia, a continent island that was in itself far from the rest of the world, and in more ways than one. Some images of vast, green meadows here and there, and a few pictures of the inhabitants of the peninsula: People dressed in long black and white robes, wearing necklaces decorated with precious gems and other jewelry, walking through stone streets, or traveling in lavish horse-drawn carriages. They were tall, with high cheekbones, large wide mouths, and slanted eyes. No one had hair; however, he could notice that, in the majority, it was from shaving, following some type of tradition rather than from suffering from some extreme case of alopecia. It was easy to tell by the shadow left by the shaved hair on their heads. And then, there were some who, like that woman in B-Crush, were naturally hairless, without eyebrows, nothing; their eyes were violet, reddish, in some cases; and their skin was much more grayish, almost bluish, than he had thought.
Stolen novel; please report.
Many of these photos came from articles that talked about the distinctive appearance of the Eddanians, about how captivating those violet eyes were, and some theories about the origin of that skin color.
They clearly belonged to a different culture than the Rodinian one—and the Markabian one, for that matter—and beyond these features, but there was nothing supernatural about them at first glance either.
He searched his contact list, exchanged texts with a couple of acquaintances, and got the number of the person he was looking for. In the profile picture, he could see that he was still as handsome as he remembered to be. Abundant black hair, somewhat pale skin, yes, although not very gray, and large, almond-shaped eyes, but honey-colored. Surely, that extreme baldness and that bluish skin tone had been diluted with the passing of generations and the mixing of races.
He took a deep breath and called.
“Ciriaco, hi! Long time no see… Yes, it’s me, Adam, how have you been? …Glad to hear that… Me? No, no, I’ve also moved away from the catwalks. Underwear, now only inside the house, and maybe with a lady friend as my only spectator, y’know? Hey, sorry to bother you, but I wanted to know—Well, I remember you told me that your grandparents were originally from the Edda Peninsula, right? …Oh, I see! They were your great-grandparents! Well… Anyway, let’s just say that there aren’t many direct descendants of Eddanians that you can find here in Proxima, so I wanted…”
And then he went silent. He was so excited to find out something, anything, that he hadn’t stopped to think about what he was going to ask. ‘Ciriaco, do you know if your great-grandparents were one of those Eddanians folks who emit radiation that causes erratic behavior, whatever that is? You do? Maybe it’s a secret that passes from generation to generation. Who knows?’
Quick, he had to reverse the course of his interest and not sound like an idiot.
“Well… I wanted to know how they managed to… get out of Pannotia without being troubled by the Imperial fascists… Oh, I see! Different territories, different laws. Sure, it makes sense. Some papers in Migrations and that’s it, right?... Well, I... Oh, yes! Loud was a surprise to me too, y’know? Yes, yes, I saw your face on the cover of the May issue. I think Charlie was the next cover; yeah... I’m glad I talked to you, dude... Of course! Whenever you want… See you!”
He ended the call, put the phone aside, and sighed.